


Should've been

by orphan_account



Category: American (US) Actor RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 13:54:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17768030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The BAFTA photos and that red carpet left me inspired.





	Should've been

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a trash and can only hope that Hell won't burn too much when I eventually end up in there. 
> 
> Every resemblance to real persons is entirely (not) coincidental, and only a source of inspiration.

Her white dress swims in front of him; a beacon he can’t seem to take his eyes off. He can’t really remember the last time he felt so mesmerised by her - and after 13 years at her side, not every day is exciting.

 

He knows it. 

 

Still, today is like they were newlyweds; like it would be their wedding day all over again on the white-sanded beaches surrounded by a water of almost surreal turquoise when in reality they tread the plush red carpets. 

 

He can’t seem to be able to take his eyes off her, and he is even more reluctant to leave her for the minutes that require him to tend to his duty of signing and taking selfies. 

 

There is an endless well of strength in her, one he always relies on. The burn of the flashing lights and the frenzy that picks him apart is bearable - because he has her to look at, to talk to, to touch. 

 

They flirt with the easiness of their first few months - the way he imagined it should have been instead of the reality: him being an awkward, out of place young adult with the scorched soul of a forty-year-old man and with the easiness of a retired admiral. 

 

He flirts with her like he should have back then. 

 

She  _ glows.  _ She  _ radiates _ . 

 

A beacon he can’t take his eyes off, and he smiles at her, his  _ wife _ , he reminds himself with no small amount of amazement. She quips and he chuckles with a confidence of a man who now has things to offer. Who now understands how to swoon a woman. 

 

Does it count if you have been married to said woman for -  _ how many? Five? Six?   _ \- years? Her slender form feels sinfully right under his hands. This is his  _ wife _ he is lusting after. 

 

He is falling head over heels for his  _ wife _ again, it dawns on him and he softly shakes his head at the absurdity and magic of it. 

 

It’s another reality, in this bubble she creates, and he is again looking at her, her lips, her green eyes - and there is  _ want  _ now in him. He wants her. So much. To take off the white dress - like on their wedding night. Except, he would now know better how to proceed, how to take care of her, how to honor her as a woman. 

 

He had been too volatile back then. Now, he would take his sweet time and savor every second - like he should have back then. 

 

She is pushing back a strand of his unruly hair into its place - and the gesture is yet again something that reminds him how his wife works: she reflects back every small bit of attention with the intensity of a thousand mirrors. He is just looking at her, and she is  _ gleaming _ . 

 

He should have done this sooner. Should not have forgotten what it was like to have her by his side. 

 

They move again, away from the crowd. The worst is over, he thinks, just when the outline of a familiar chin registers at the edge of his vision - his attention flicks involuntarily, his heart frozen. 

 

It hasn't even occurred to him  _ she _ could be here. The world ceased to exist as soon as his spouse walked out of the make-up room, right into his arms, but now it's coming back with the unrelenting power of the past. 

 

She is staring at his wife with all the pain of an unexpected betrayal on the verge of tears. 

 

He snaps away his gaze,  the sight scorching him. 

 

_ Fuck. _

 

His wife tells him yet another sweet remark about something, and his hands find their way on the small of her back, leaning down to hear her speak. He listens and his heart swells with tenderness - but a thought is wedging itself in his consciousness like a splinter. 

 

He should have been more careful. 

 

Because those months come back to him with a cringe: the guilt, the long, cold nights spent on the couch. He should have been more careful - should have reminded himself of how the undivided attention he gives everyone he works with is sucked up by the wrought souls of Hollywood like water in the desert - how it makes the seeds of long-forgotten nature hiding in the sand catch root and bloom. How those flowers might live on longer and evolve into something beautiful but poisonous. 

 

Just like he learned to keep his oversized body in check, he should learn to control his soul matching the shadow of his figure. 

 

To be more indifferent. 

 

But such as he is, this plant was left to flourish, unattended to, grew into the brick walls and made it splatter - with time, with resilience, and then there is no removing it without damage, while their poison seeps right into his life. 

 

He should have been more careful. Instead he left two shattered hearts. 

 

He squeezes his wife's hand with meaning and when she turns to look at him with a radiant smile, he allows himself her forgiveness. 

 

…

  
  


Eventually, even his wife’s strength wears thin. There is just this amount of time someone can spend in the spotlight as a prop before exhausting themselves. 

 

He asks for the driver and the black SUV resembling a smaller tank rolls around the back entrance shortly. He takes her hand, impossibly fragile between his fingers and leads her out, helping her into the car. 

 

Just like on their wedding day, he thinks again, unbidden. 

 

Except today is better than their wedding day. They have so much more;  _ he  _ is so much more as a person. She has become less communicative, and he pulls her into his embrace on the backseat, pressing his lips to the crown of her head, inhaling the shampoo they share. She sighs as response, and he can  _ hear  _ the smile in it. 

 

_ 13 years _ , he huffs and the corner of his lips quirks. 

 

The city rushes at the window, lights stretching at the speed. The hotel comes into sight, and soon they stop. The photographers are hunted for with the vigilance of the FBI, so he doesn't fear unwanted headlines when he crouches at the side of the car to lift his dozing wife in a bridal carry, playing into the onslaught of memories of the day they tied their lives together. 

 

Just when he has her arranged, she wakes. 

 

“Babe?“ she asks, voice hoarse. 

 

“I wanted to carry you inside,” he confesses, little embarrassed. 

 

She smiles lazily. 

 

“Thank you, babe. But I can walk.” As if to emphasize her gratitude, she presses a kiss to his cheek when she finally does stand on wobbly feet. 

 

He drapes his arm around her shoulders and guides him until she it more secure; by the time they enter the lobby, they are only holding hands. 

 

He is infatuated with her, he thinks in the elevator that takes them high to the king suit. 

 

“Would you have thought, ten years ago in that one-bedroom apartment we rented from my father’s money and your first Broadway plays that this would be our life?” she asks. 

 

He glances at her and realizes from the way her is staring at the floor with unseeing eyes that she is dumbstruck. 

 

“No,” he answers simply and honestly.

 

She turns to look at him and they stare at each other with a newfound love; love which burns more in vermillion than carmine, a love that knows it has time and doesn’t need to hurry. 

 

She exists the metal box first, striding to the door with secure steps. She floats. 

 

Her fingerprint placed on the reader opens up the room and when they are inside, he reaches for her wrist, turning her around. 

Wordlessly, he is kissing her. Kissing her with the pent-up longing from the whole evening, with the guilt that has been eating at him silently. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and looks into her eyes to watch the whole cycle of emotions from confusion, then understanding followed by a flicker of pain and then the resolution to bury it. 

 

He kisses her again until she is breathless, then turns her around, swiping her long, golden hair from her neck to while his fingers work on the dress that he has been cursing and admiring the whole night. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he rumbles again against her skin, while his teeth leave gentle marks on her, wrenching the gasps from her lips. Were it ten years ago, he would have ripped her clothes to shreds. Now, he takes his sweet time to make her hot and bothered until the only piece of nude lingerie she has been wearing is pulled off. 

 

He makes her come gently, over and over again, until she presses the pillow on her head to muffle her screams. 

 

_ I’m sorry, _ he echoes through all of it. When she asks for it, he makes love to her, slow and tender. She lets him pepper her with kisses, with apologies. 

 

A tear or two rolls down her face, but he doesn’t stop. He knows she doesn’t want him. They tell everything there is to tell with their bodies until the conversation leaves them relieved and satisfied.

 

He takes her to shower and kisses her some more - because he can, because she lets him, just to see how much she can take until the cracks of her soul have been mended with gold and she shines even brighter than before. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says for the last time when they are lying in the bed, tangled limbs in the sheets.

 

“I already forgave you,” she reminds him weakly. “Forgive yourself, babe.”

 

“I can’t,” he whispers, afraid. 

 

She lifts her head and looks at with a resoluteness for them both. 

 

“You can, babe. You can.” 

 

Her strength is the one he always relies on. The star he can’t seem to take his eyes off. His wife, he is falling in love all over again. 

 

“Okay,” he says and feels it. 

 

When she settles on his chest again, they are at peace. 

 

Like they always should’ve been. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
